


'We' Could Be 'Three'

by BosieJan



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Crossover, Divergent Timelines, F/M, M/M, Random & Short, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-01-30 00:20:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12642261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BosieJan/pseuds/BosieJan
Summary: Short & sweet: CMBYN's Oliver is actually Gaby and Illya's son and his favourite person in the world is his 'art professor' uncle, Napoleon Solo, better known as 'Uncle Leo'.





	1. The Gist Of It - Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline is as follows: UNCLE (2015) happened in 1963. Pretending Oliver (CMBYN) was born in 1964 after Illya and Gaby married and retired from UNCLE, rather than Oliver’s actual birth year of 1959 (24 years old at the time of CMBYN in 1983), Oliver would be 19/20 at the time of CMBYN in 1983, which is still plausible as a university student traveling abroad but incorrect by CMBYN timeline. PLEASE do not come to me with complaints about Oliver's age in this fic, IT IS WRITTEN PURELY FOR CRACK FUN.

Their retirement came as something of a surprise to Waverly, though his acquiescence of it was likewise surprising. 

 

He’d seen it coming for a long time, and wasn’t about to deny Illya and Gaby their future together. He was a romantic at heart, the bitter old bastard, but he hid it fairly well throughout the years. They’d only made it a year as UNCLE agents before their decision to start a family took precedence. Illya was already in his thirties and Gaby wanted what Illya wanted; a stable home, a family, a future. 

 

The fact that Gaby announced rather suddenly that she was pregnant, in February of 1964, meant they’d have a baby in hand by November of the same year. Retirement was their only option, and it was welcomed wholeheartedly. Only Napoleon was disappointed, but his lifestyle meant traveling and relationships lasting less than the length of an entire night, so neither Illya nor Gaby took it personally. He wished them well, and continued to work for UNCLE indefinitely.

 

\----------------------------

 

In 1970, as a treat to celebrate the close of the 60’s, Napoleon showed up in New York--still his traditional haunting grounds, but also where Illya and Gaby had settled themselves, both American citizens after completing the proper emigration process--with gifts and stories of Brazil and South Africa. 

 

Gaby was still her svelte self, resplendent in slacks rather than the short dresses she’d worn throughout her time with UNCLE. Her blouse had long, flowing sleeves that draped over Napoleon’s back as he bent down to scoop her up into a hug. He lifted her right off the ground with a friendly growl and spun them around, setting her right back down with a click of her heels on the entryway’s hardwood floor. 

 

“It’s about time you showed your face around here,” she scolded, the ire and anger absolutely falsified. She was glad to see him. “Illya is in the den, but Oliver is upstairs. He doesn’t know you’re coming because we kept it a secret from him. He’ll be so pleased to see you.”

 

Napoleon smiled; he’d become Oliver’s favourite relative--his only relative, really--from the moment Napoleon first handed the boy a book on classical art and architecture. Only six years old now, Oliver had shown potential to be incredibly bright, so books were given more freely and with varying degrees of difficulty, and reading was severely encouraged.

 

“And is Peril avoiding my arrival, or is he busy?”

 

Gaby smiled, patting Napoleon on the arm. “He’s just as excited to see you, but he’s working on something..technical. You can go on and see him.”

 

She stepped aside and gestured for Napoleon to head into the townhouse, Illya’s den in the back of the house where the French doors led out to a fenced yard. Illya’s penchant for electronics and trackers had led to him tinkering with tracking systems and still offering tracker support to UNCLE when requested.

 

Napoleon wandered down the long hallway toward the den, listening for movement upstairs. He knew Oliver would be in his playroom--a large loft space designed by Illya to be bright and inviting, but filled with puzzles and toys and bookshelves filled with things sent by Napoleon. He knocked on the doorframe and then leaned against it, comfortable in his dark slacks and button-up, Napoleon’s jacket left at the door.

 

Illya turned around and smiled, a tracker caught between his lips and wires in both hands. He tilted his head to indicate that Napoleon could come in, then went about setting his items down in order to stand. Still just as tall as ever and crow’s feet barely hinted toward at the corners of his eyes, Illya looked every bit a dutiful family man in his light slacks and turtleneck.

 

“Is good to see you, Cowboy,” he said lovingly, reaching both arms out for a tight, lingering hug. Napoleon chuckled and pushed himself away, still in the circle of Illya’s long arms. He smiled up at Illya’s barely-aged face, his hair slightly longer but his eyes just as blue as they’d ever been.

 

“You too, Peril. Look at this place; your workshop’s completed and the wallpaper’s up in the foyer! Thought you two would never get it finished.”

 

Illya snorted, letting go of Napoleon to settle back into his chair. He pointed to the couch opposite the low coffee table he was working on, offering Napoleon a seat. 

 

“Took a long time, yes, but is now finished. Third bedroom is also finished, so you will finally stay in room with curtains and wall covering.”

 

Napoleon fixed himself a glass of scotch from the sideboard bar and then settled onto the couch, sitting back with his arms over the back of it and his legs crossed. “It’s nice, Peril. You two have certainly made lives for yourselves. I’m jealous.”

 

Illya’s smile wavered just enough that it was noticeable, then he went back to the gentle smile. “I miss being spy,” he admitted. “I still help with tracking business, but is not the same. We are set for life with funds Waverly gave for services provided, but is leg work I miss. Climbing through windows and shooting guns. You understand.”

 

“I understand,” Napoleon agreed, actually understanding and not simply making Illya think he did. Being a spy--especially a very good one--was a difficult thing to give up. Napoleon doubted he’d ever be able to. A ‘til death do us part’ sort of thing.

 

“Ollie is upstairs.”

 

Napoleon nodded. “Gaby told me. I’m speaking loud enough to assume he’ll hear me and come flying down those stairs, but he hasn’t yet.”

 

Illya shook his head and reached for a small communications device Napoleon immediately recognized; what Americans referred to as a walkie-talkie. He pressed the button three times in succession and was rewarded with a chirp of static and then Oliver’s small voice coming through the line as if he were standing right beside them.

 

“Hi, Dad. Over.”

 

Illya rolled his eyes, making Napoleon chuckle. It was a very American thing to add ‘over’ to the end of the chatter, but Oliver was very bright for a six year old. Illya pressed the button and replied in a very militaristic tone.

 

“General Solo has arrived for inspection, Cadet Kuryakin. Suggest you make yourself presentable and make an appearance. ..Over.”

 

Illya hadn’t even finished the conversation and Napoleon could hear the boy coming down from the loft. Small feet thumped on the upper floors and stairs until he finally made it down to the main floor, skidding to a halt at the door to Illya’s den as if he weren’t accustomed to being allowed inside.

 

Even at six years old, Oliver looked just like his father. Illya had shown them pictures of himself after he’d cleared out his apartment back in Moscow for the big move to the United States. Oliver was his carbon copy, right down to the flowing blond hair and striking blue eyes. Gaby had lamented the fact that her brown eyes and auburn hair  _ should _ have been  _ far _ more dominant gene-wise, but she still adored their young son.

 

Illya set down the walkie-talkie and nodded toward their guest, giving Napoleon just enough time to stand and then crouch down before Oliver jumped right into his arms, the boy’s arms around his neck and his squeal of delight loud enough to bring Gaby down the hallway with a loud, German-language grumble.

 

“The neighbours, Oliver!” she complained, wagging a finger at the boy, though the wagging was for all three of the men in her life.

 

“It’s all right,” Napoleon insisted. “He’ll only be this age for the blink of an eye, then he’ll be off and exploring Europe on some art adventure, won’t you?” His gaze turned to Oliver, who was suspended against Napoleon with a meaty arm scooped under his backside. 

 

“Yeah!” the boy exclaimed, one arm around the back of Napoleon’s neck while the other patted at the breast pocket of Napoleon’s polo. “Did you bring me anything, Uncle Leo?”

 

Illya rolled his eyes again, looking from them to Gaby, whose eyes likewise rolled. 

 

“Of course I did. What kind of uncle would I be, if I didn’t bring extravagant gifts for my loved ones?”

 

It sounded like a put-on, if Illya was any judge of Napoleon’s character, but he knew the American had warmed to the idea of a family over the years, even if his ‘family’ was only the three other people in the room with him.

 

Napoleon bent down so Oliver could be standing on his own once again, then pointed to the foyer. “I bet you walked right past a pair of suitcases in your hurry to see me, hm?”

 

Oliver shrugged, the gesture so  _ Gaby _ that Napoleon barked out a laugh. 

 

“Bring the blue suitcase in here and we’ll see what the country of Spain had in stock for gifts this year. The black suitcase is only clothes, so leave it where it is.”

 

Oliver nodded and did indeed bring the blue suitcase in, dragging it from the foyer right back to the den, since it was far too heavy for a boy to lift properly. Napoleon knew it would be, but dragging it also meant none of the breakables inside would be further damaged. He only hoped the china he found for Gaby was still intact.

 

Oliver put the case at Napoleon’s feet and Illya cleared a spot on the coffee table for it, letting Napoleon lift it up and snap the locks open. Oliver was already touching the case, as if it were all for only him.

 

“Patience, Ollie,” Illya warned, the nickname so commonplace on Illya’s tongue that he couldn’t even use Oliver’s full name when scolding him. “Manners first.”

 

The boy smiled and Napoleon saw the grinning little Russian boy Illya had shown in the family photo albums salvaged over the years, all long limbs and fluffy blond hair. Digging into the suitcase after slowly lifting the lid, Napoleon first pulled out a shirt-covered bundle for Illya, drawing a bottle of Andalusian rum-- _ Ron de Motril-- _ from within. Illya took it with a grunt of appreciation, always adoring of Napoleon’s gifts of alcohol. They were usually very expensive and often hard to come by, so they added class to Illya’s liquor cabinet.

 

The china was safe, buried in more shirts and slacks; a Valencian tea service for four, as well as a pair of figurines of a prince and princess, made from the most delicate porcelain the Spanish had managed to create. There was a cabinet in the front sitting room which Napoleon was slowly filling with expensive collectibles, finding cute things for Gaby that she’d actually take pride in. Many things were car-related, but a good portion of them were also family-related; parents with a child, baby-themed objects like a crystal rattle from Switzerland, and a set of ABC blocks in Cyrillic, cut from Italian marble.

 

Oliver was now getting impatient. He danced around a bit until a grunt from his father calmed him right down. Napoleon knew they didn’t exactly correct their child in any sort of enormous amount but both Gaby and Illya were no-nonsense people, so Oliver was likely spanked when necessary and was slowly learning from it.

 

Digging to the bottom, Napoleon brought out first a book on Neo-classicism, deciding that Oliver was old enough to read about the Roman and Western influences on art. The boy took it with a squeal of excitement and sat right down on the rug cross-legged, the book opened to show many photographs with short descriptions below them. Not heavy reading, but very important information nonetheless.

 

But the book wasn’t the only item Napoleon had procured for the boy. Oliver’s eyes were on the book but also partially on Napoleon’s hands, which still dug around in the suitcase. He closed the book and set it on the floor beside him, but didn’t get up. 

 

“Is there more, Uncle Leo?”

 

_ ‘Uncle Leo’ _ itself was a treasure for both Gaby and Illya to hear;  _ Napoleon _ had been deemed too adult of a name for the boy to pronounce, once he started talking and recognizing those in his immediate family.  _ Leon _ felt too adult to Napoleon himself, so  _ Leo _ was chosen. It was also a bit art nouveau. Napoleon thought it sounded a bit more carefree than his whole name, while Illya thought it sounded very _ American _ .

 

Napoleon brought out another shirt, this one revealing its contents to be a hand-carved wooden horse. “An Andalusian stallion,” he said calmly, as Oliver laughed and trotted the horse across Illya’s table, the creature solid and stable for the boy to likely abuse as he played with it. “Carved right on the beach.”

 

Added to the book and the horse, Napoleon gave Oliver building blocks that created the shape of the Sistine Chapel and Westminster Abbey, as well as two clothing sets which Gaby took hold of. One was a child’s size uniform of the Spanish Armada for Oliver’s dress-up closet, and the other was a fancy suit Oliver could wear to formal occasions with his parents.

 

“There, see?” Gaby asked, carding a hand through Oliver’s hair. “Your uncle brought you the nicest things! Now take your new treasures upstairs and wash up. We’re going out for dinner, so I’ll be up to dress you in ten minutes.”

 

\--------------------------

 

A week passed in that manner, visiting old locales and museums, and catching up on the past few months. Napoleon had met someone, then lost her to her husband. He’d had a fling with a bartender in Athens but the man wasn’t so sure of being as openly romantic in public as Napoleon was, so it ended rather badly.

 

Another year passed and gifts were sent this time via post; Napoleon was on a mission to South Africa again and couldn’t get back for Oliver’s birthday or Christmas--they were only six weeks apart--so the items were carefully wrapped and expedited. 

 

Napoleon tried to get back once a year at least but sometimes it was five or six times, sending letters and making phone calls in the interim. The letters were often simple postcards, but Oliver kept them all. They were never addressed to Gaby or Illya but he called a lot during midday, when he knew Oliver was at school and he only wanted to talk to the adults. It was always where he was, how he was, and what sort of missions he’d been on. 

 

They checked up on him like family would, and it made Napoleon feel  _ wanted _ .

 

It made him feel  _ needed _ .

 

\----------------------

 

Neither Illya nor Gaby wanted for money, but Napoleon had insisted on paying for Oliver’s education. He went to a public elementary school and a public high school, graduating with honors in 1981 at the tender age of sixteen. He’d be seventeen that following November, but he was still a year ahead of the other students. Illya was enormously proud, and Gaby as well. Oliver had smart parents, so they assumed he’d be a genius.

 

They were all glad that Oliver chose a northeastern university to attend. In the spring of 1983, Oliver announced that he was going abroad to work with a professor near Lombardy, Italy. He’d applied the previous November and was accepted, and Napoleon was the one encouraging it right from the beginning. He paid for the application fees and for all of Oliver’s travel costs, with the request that Oliver write him from where he was staying and not leave anything out.

 

To ensure that Napoleon would get Oliver’s letters, Napoleon had taken it upon himself to take up residence in New York once again, at a flat he hadn’t used in some time. He neglected to tell Oliver that the flat had been purchased _ decades _ earlier when Napoleon was still working for the CIA, since as far as Oliver was concerned, Napoleon was an art professor when the boy was young, but then retired and chose to travel the world to visit archaeological sites and locations of historical significance to the art world. In reality, Napoleon was a fifty-five year old international spy  _ still  _ working for UNCLE, but he was slowing down by tiny increments over the years.

 

It made Oliver happy to know that his uncle would be somewhere near his parents, since Illya had started getting arthritis in his hands and wasn’t able to tinker as much as he had. Getting old was a curse, Illya kept saying, but Gaby loved Illya’s crow’s feet and slow hands. They were still very big, strong hands, but they weren’t able to fire a pistol with as tight accuracy as they once had been.

 

\----------------------

 

In his final letter sent to Napoleon from Italy, Oliver mentioned how Napoleon’s name had come up in conversation of family members, and Elio’s father--the man that had requested and approved Oliver’s application in the first place, and the patriarch of the Perlman family--gave Oliver a strange look. He scratched his beard and said that the name sounded vaguely familiar, as if it _ did  _ belong in the art world someplace.

 

Oliver had said of course it belonged; his uncle was an art professor at the University of Vienna. He’d retired a few years back, but he was still active in the art community. It was he whom fed Oliver’s thirst for information about art and was the reason why Oliver had taken up art as a career to begin with.

 

Mr. Perlman had left it at that but there was something off about the man when Oliver mentioned  _ ‘Uncle Leo’, _ and Napoleon chuckled to himself when he read that last bit of information. He knew why the man was suspicious; Napoleon’s name was a bit of a joke anymore. His capture as an art thief was wide-spread news at one point in time, but only art professors in sleepy European towns from decades past would remember it.

 

He shrugged as his phone rang, knowing that it was likely Illya or Gaby calling to tell him that Oliver’s plane had finally landed and that he was home. The truth about Napoleon’s history had to come out sometime and of course, Napoleon hoped Mr. Perlman hadn’t given him away. It was going to be a very long, very interesting conversation once Oliver was settled back in and home safe.

  
  
  
  



	2. Slice Of Life Snippets #1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a collection of slice-of-life drabbles/short fic/snippets I've written, revolving around Gaby, Illya, Napoleon, and young Oliver. More chapters will come, with the ages varying anywhere from a toddler to a twenty year old Oliver. They're simply written off the top of my head at any given time, when I have a few minutes to spare. Each snippet/scenario is separated by a dashed line for ease of reading.

Gaby can cook if she really wants, but while it's edible, it's not necessarily good, Illya too.

  
  


They should just make Napoleon their housekeeper, since even when they have little Oliver; neither of them can cook all that well so instead of feeding the poor child dinosaur nuggets every night, they can reply on Napoleon’s skills for decent meals.

 

Illya's angry about it, and is immediately announcing his displeasure in a hushed whisper so Oliver doesn’t hear.

 

"No. No, you did  _ not _ call him again. He's got his own lif-" Napoleon enters carrying covered trays and bags, immediately handing them to Illya and leans down for a cheek kiss to Gaby. Six year old Oliver is squealing as he careens down the stairs, thumping hard with both feet planted solidly on the carpeted floor of the foyer.

 

“UNCLE LEO!”

 

Both parents sigh but while Gaby’s unapologetic about calling him, Illya is already heading to the kitchen to find plates and cutlery, grumbling under his breath.

 

\---------------------------------

  
  


Napoleon disappears for a while on some mission somewhere when Oliver's about nine. Old enough to know Uncle Leo's not visited in a year or so. Asks about him and begs his mother for information, but only Illya knows where he's gone to.

  
  


It’s a pilgrimage back to some place where he'd left a stash of money or art or a lover he'd left a little gift with (maybe a child or a pet or something).

  
  


He finally shows up on Oliver's, tenth birthday with gifts for him relating to art (explains Oliver's want to go to university for art/archaeology/whatever he was going for in the CMBYN book/movie).

  
  


Brings gifts for Illya and Gaby too and while Gaby is happy to see him and scolds him for being gone so long, it's after Oliver's gone to bed that Illya pulls him aside to discuss where he's been and how he affects Oliver when he doesn't call or send letters.

 

Napoleon apologizes the way he does--excuses and reasoning he knows Illya will understand--and Illya scolds him with a sour look and then a hug, because they'd all missed him terribly.

 

"Have to call more, Cowboy," he scolds. "Or send letters. He likes your letters. Keeps them in box under bed."

 

"I know. I'll try," Napoleon answers, toeing the carpet with the finely-polished tip of his shoe. "I didn't do it on purpose. Time..got away from me."

 

"He wants to be like you, you know," Illya warns. "Thinks his uncle is art professor."

 

\----------------------------

 

So when Oliver was eight, he got really sick from what the doctors thought was chicken pox, but it was actually scarlet fever. Napoleon came back from Japan as soon as he could and he sat up in bed with Oliver for days, only leaving to use the toilet or have a quick shower.

 

Illya and Gaby kept an eye on both of them, Illya taking over for Napoleon when Napoleon was about to fall asleep, and Gaby feeding her boys right there in the bed. Soup, crackers, small bites of sandwich. She kept Oliver hydrated with cold tea and sugar water, but Napoleon got sweetened coffee and Illya the same.

 

It took a week for the fever to clear and when the doctor came to check Oliver at the end of it, he wasn't surprised to find both Illya and Napoleon curled around the boy in Oliver's small bed, a smile on Gaby's face as she told him her boys had 'refused to rest until Oliver was better'.

 

\-------------------------

 

Napoleon caught a bullet in the shoulder when Oliver was eleven. He'd been doing surveillance at Yankee Stadium when a sniper he hadn't expected caught him square in the right side. He was hospitalized because people had seen the incident and Illya immediately visited, seeing if Napoleon needed cover or protection, or even an alibi.

 

They brought Oliver to visit and as Napoleon was patched up, the fact that it was a gunshot wound didn't come up; Gaby said Uncle Leo had fallen rather badly while bringing groceries up to his apartment, and had to have surgery to correct it.

 

Oliver insisted that they visit nightly until Napoleon's release, then another week of visits at Napoleon's apartment. He taught Oliver about his kitchen and how to maneuver one of his own, and Oliver learned the difference between stone fruits and pitted fruits, and how to make the best apricot crepes that side of the Potomac.

 

\---------------------------

 

"Turns out Ollie is allergic to strawberry like me," Illya says. "So he is definitely my son. But then also, he is not fond of potato, so is possible that he is also  _ not _ my son. Is shame."

 

"HE'S YOURS, YOU FOOL!", Gaby yells from the kitchen.

 

Not to be outdone, Illya yells back like a goddamn klaxxon, his eyes rolling as if on caster wheels. 

 

"DA, I KNOW, IS JOKE!"

 

The neighbors are fine with it. They get annoyed sometimes but Gaby has them sufficiently charmed. Illya doesn't yell much and it's 99%  _ never _ in anger.

 

\-------------------------

 

So the first time Illya held Oliver, the boy a still-screaming newborn less than ten minutes old, Illya cried. The baby's screaming didn't faze him, nor did Gaby's sweet, somewhat insistent tone telling him to give the baby back to the nurses, so they could finish cleaning him up. They'd only given Oliver to Illya for that momentary bonding minute right after he was born, but Illya was now loathe to give him up.

 

He did, but it was with wide eyes and tight lips that Illya hovered around, watching what the nurses were doing and asking questions, only one nurse keeping an eye on Gaby since she'd come through the birthing process rather well. She didn't need too much other than a few stitches and some sleep and Illya was more than willing to let the nurses give those things to his darling wife, but ‘'please, I want to hold my son again'’, he kept asking.

 

He was finally shooed out of the delivery room and Napoleon was there waiting in the corridor, a bundle of blue and white balloons dancing beside him where they were tied to his wrist, a vase of blue, yellow and white flowers in the same hand, and a pair of cigars in the other hand.

 

Illya was so happy to see him that he hugged Napoleon while the American still held his gifts, then stepped back to look Napoleon in the eye, Illya's eyes brimming with tears again but this time, he was at least smiling.

 

"Is Oliver, Cowboy. My son is Oliver."

 

Napoleon chuckled, tilting his head toward the delivery room. "And is Gaby all right, Peril? Think of your wife, too."

 

"Gaby is good! Doctor said she did well. Oliver was small baby."

 

\--------------------

 

Oliver becomes Illya’s whole world.

 

Who's Gaby? Cowboy who? No one else exists for awhile.

Illya is the only dad ever who wants to be the one to get up every time the baby cries in the middle of the night despite Gaby insisting sometimes she HAS TO, because Oliver needs to be fed.

 

Illya's just comfortable with insomnia. He kisses Gaby lightly on the cheek each time Oliver cries and he's up in a second, padding to the bassinet to scoop the tiny bundle up and rock him in the chair by the window.

 

He's so loathe to give him up, even with Gaby. "Da, I know he has to be fed, but can wait five more minutes? No? Then I will kneel here by chair and watch you feed him. Is nice, seeing him enjoy what I also enjoy."

 

And he doesn't mean the milk.

 

Though Illya's also kinda enamoured with how big Gaby's breasts get during her pregnancy and afterwards.

 

"You have two. One for Oliver and one for me."

 

Gaby is not impressed.

 

"Is fair,” Illya complains. “You were mine first."

 

It'd get to be too much and he'd feel scolded when Gaby finally puts her foot down and says no, she'd like some alone time with the baby, please. She makes a phone call one afternoon, while Illya is doing the daily shopping at the market. She’s exhausted but finally spending time with Oliver.

 

“Napoleon, please come home and distract my husband for a while.”

 

Napoleon snorts into the phone and leans back where he’s resting his backside against his balcony railing. He’d been in New York for a week since Oliver was born, but hadn’t told anyone that he was still nearby. Mission could come up suddenly and plans could be ruined, so he’d made no plans.

 

"Not a chance,” he refuses. “He  _ growled _ at me when I reached to touch Oliver's  _ hand _ last time."

 

Napoleon shows up anyway with flowers for Gaby, a smart little outfit for the baby, and booze for Illya.

 

"I haven't been alone with my child since before he came out of me," Gaby complains, pecking Napoleon on the cheek and taking the gifts from him. Oliver’s in his bassinet now in the sitting room, where he can get some afternoon sunshine.

 

Napoleon goes over to see the baby, smiling into the bassinet and making cooing noises.

 

"You married  _ and _ had a child with a man whose job with the KGB was _ tracking people _ . That's on you, sweetheart."

 

\-------------------------

 

When they went for walks in the park, when Oliver was very little, Napoleon always made the boy hold his hand. It wasn't for Oliver's safety, but because Napoleon knew Illya would've done it for him, if  _ he _ were walking with the boy.

 

Illya and Gaby hung back during the walks, walking more slowly. Illya's eyes were always on his son and he was constantly scolded by Gaby for being too protective, but Illya was just that way.

 

He knew Napoleon would watch Oliver as well as Illya himself--maybe even  _ better _ \--but he'd never admit it out loud. They adored the American, but Illya's rivalry with Napoleon was going to exist until the day they died.

 

"Can I get a ice cream, Uncle Leo?" Oliver would ask, as they were approaching the small cafe that sold ice cream, hot drinks, and salty snack foods.

 

"Of course you can," Napoleon said with a smile. "I won't even ask your father first." He knew it was only strawberry that Oliver--and Illya--had allergies to, so a big bubblegum-flavoured cone was handed down to Oliver, and a flashing smile given to his parents.

 

"Is not good for him, Cowboy," Illya warned. He ordered a coffee for himself and Gaby wanted a vanilla cone dipped in chocolate. Napoleon bought all of the items  _ and _ a coffee for himself, then they walked away again, argument over.

 

Napoleon could have bought Oliver a  _ sub-machine gun _ and Illya still would have only rolled his eyes.

 

\---------------------

 

The KGB came for Illya the first time when Oliver was four, against the agreement they had with UNCLE. Illya was supposed to be fully retired and only contacted for emergencies or for tracking assistance, but he was fully pardoned and given his freedom via a contract they shared.

 

Oliver and Gaby were at the park after doing the daily grocery shopping, and Gaby only knew something was amiss when she came up her stairs and opened the front door, only to find a ruined foyer and furniture in disarray.

 

She immediately took Oliver upstairs and locked him in his playroom, ignoring his confused cries for his Papa, and she scurried downstairs in search of her husband.

 

It was wise for her to take Oliver upstairs and away from whatever may have been going on, since Illya was in his den at the back of the house, more furniture broken and upside down, and the Russian himself sitting on his sofa, bleeding from the forehead, the hands, and the nose.

 

At his feet lay two men in business suits, each of them with broken necks, as well as other contusions and broken extremities.

 

"Illya?" she asked timidly, not afraid of her husband, but also unsure of what exactly had happened. They were supposed to be past this sort of life.

 

"KGB," Illya immediately answered, not even needing to be asked who they were. He knew his wife and what she silently wished to ask. "They were sent by Director to take me home."

 

"I'm calling Waverly," Gaby answered, not touching Illya in case he was in a sort of mental break zone. She made the call and Waverly said he would forward a recovery team immediately. She mentioned Oliver being home, so they were to come quietly. No knocking down doors.

 

Illya didn't move until the team came and they checked him over. He had a concussion and a split lip, but his nose wasn't broken, nor were his knuckles. They took the bodies out of the house and the rest of the team began cleaning and setting the foyer and den to rights, taking the broken furniture with them and promising replacements within a day.

 

Once the team left and Illya was patched enough to not look terrible, Gaby brought Oliver down from his playroom, where he'd fallen asleep after having a cry. She placed him into Illya's lap and she crowded in herself as well, clutching Illya as if he  _ were _ leaving.

 

He would have still won the fight, if they had sent four or five men to bring him back.

 

"They won't take you," Gaby said quietly, their son again asleep but this time in Illya's lap. 

 

"They won't," Illya promised. "I will stop anyone that tries. They own me no longer. I am  _ yours  _ now," he said gruffly, meaning that he was Gaby’s and Oliver’s.

 

Of course, two men was a paltry amount to send, but they would've been Oleg's best, next to Illya. His replacements.

 

The more men Oleg sends for Illya to dispose of, the less powerful the KGB is as a whole.

 

\-----------------

 

Once Oliver was old enough to make his own phone calls, Illya sits with him in the kitchen and listens while Oliver calls Napoleon. He's there for both moral support and for help in case the call disconnects, but it had never happened to the adults, so Illya doubted it would for the boy.

 

Oliver fidgets in the dining chair while the call connects, the long distance call to the Netherlands this time. Napoleon is visiting the Van Gogh museum for what Oliver thinks is a teacher thing, but what Illya knows is a mission.

 

The line connects and it's a little static-y, but Oliver's voice is suddenly cheerful and excited as Napoleon picks up at the other end.

 

"Uncle Leo, I'm calling myself!", he chirps, Illya's hand lifting to indicate Oliver needs to keep his voice down.

 

"I bet your father is sitting right there, isn't he?" Napoleon teased, unable to see Oliver's nod.

 

“Cannot nod, Ollie. Must use words. Uncle Leo cannot see your face.” Illya says in the background, his voice fond and not scolding in the slightest.

 

"Yeah, he is! He's watching me so I don't make a mistake. Mama's at the market." 

 

Napoleon chuckles, getting comfortable in his reclining chair by the Amsterdam hotel window.

 

"And how is your schooling? Getting along with the other kids?"

 

Oliver sighed, the sound so _ Illya _ that Napoleon's face ached from the size of the smile he gave in response. "I am, but there's this one boy who's not so nice. He's kind of a poop."

 

Napoleon snorted a laugh. "A  _ poop _ ? Is your mother allowing you to curse without using real curse words?"

 

"Yeah, but Papa doesn't know." 

 

“Papa doesn't know  _ what _ ?” Illya asked, his voice slightly louder, so he was likely leaning closer to the boy. 

"Daniel's mean to me!" Oliver barked at Illya. 

 

“We will discuss later. Is time for your Uncle now.” 

 

"Okay."

 

“Tell me about your summer, Oliver,” Napoleon asked, getting as comfortable as possible for what he knows will be a very expensive telephone call.

 

\-------------------------

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. History - Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio likes hearing the 'dirty laundry' of Oliver's family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another real chapter, not simply 'slice of life' snippets. I will alternate between a real chapter and a snippet chapter each time.

During Oliver’s time in Italy, he often spent long hours chatting with the family he’d come to regard as part of his own. Mr. and Mrs. Perlman were easy listeners and they liked to hear about his schooling and plans for the future. Mafalda and Manfredi liked hearing about Oliver’s shenanigans and how his family life was.

 

But Elio liked to hear the dirty laundry of Oliver’s life, no matter how rude, crude, or taboo. Once the two of them had been intimate with each other, things changed to a darker, more demanding sort of conversation.

 

“And your father? He’s Russian, isn’t he?” Elio asked, as he and Oliver lay tanning on the beach below the cliffs. Their suits were still wet and clinged to their bodies almost obscenely, but their eyes were closed in the bright sunshine, and not--for once--on each other.

 

Oliver nodded, but realized he had to vocalize his answer since they were hiding their eyes from the mid-afternoon brightness. 

 

“Yeah, one hundred percent born and bred. He was a KGB operative in the fifties and sixties, but he retired when he married my mother.”

 

Oliver knew he had to be careful with what he said since the KGB were still active and in the entirety of Europe, but they certainly weren’t in the sleepy little town of B. Illya had warned Oliver to be careful, but that agreements had been made to provide Illya and Gaby protection and freedom from them, unless word got out that Illya was giving away secrets.

 

Nobody in B was going to learn about Illya’s KGB past, save for Elio.

 

It didn’t faze Elio to learn that Oliver’s father had a checkered past since the Cold War was still going on, and people were still being killed by spies and special operatives in all European countries surrounding their placid, delicate summer world.

 

“My grandfather was friends with Stalin and when things went for a spectacular shit in the fifties, my grandfather was arrested for all kinds of bad things.Dad said they arrested him and put him in a gulag in Siberia for crimes against the Motherland. Sounded pretty terrible since he and his mom had to go to one, too. A separate one, but he said they were like concentration camps.”

 

“No shit,” Elio said softly, knowing full-well the stories of the camps during WWII. “That sucks.”

 

“Yeah, sucks royally,” Oliver agreed, rolling onto his side on his towel. He propped his head on his hand and blinked into the bright sunshine, their sunglasses left up at the house. “Mom’s family wasn’t much better, though she’s German, not Russian. Her dad was some kinda rocket scientist working for the Nazi’s. He got away and was picked up by the Americans for their nuclear project, but then he was kidnapped by the Italians for some scheme by a friend of Mussolini’s.”

 

Elio rolled onto his side and gave Oliver an incredulous look, though sarcasm was right there in the very same look. “No fucking way. It’s like a story from a B movie. Spies, and nuclear war, and secretive conspiracies about Mussolini and Hitler and Stalin? Give me a break.”

 

Oliver looked nonplussed. “It’s all true. I’ve seen the documents and the case files. Dad keeps them all locked in a cabinet in his study, but his combination was too easy to crack.”

 

Elio looked interested again. “Yeah? What was it?”

 

Oliver snorted a light laugh. “My birthday.”

 

“You really  _ are _ their golden child, aren’t you? You weren’t kidding when you said your parents were kinda important.”

 

“Important to me, but also to the organization they used to work for. Dad still gets calls sometimes to help with tracking. He was the best tracker the KGB had ever employed.”

 

Elio scooped up a fistful of sand and let it fall from his closed hand into a small pile, then smoothed it over with flat fingers. “Bet they’re rich, huh? After a life like that?” His own family was very well-off, as evidenced by their ownership of a villa by the sea, staff to run their home, and the beautiful art within the villa.

 

“I think so. We live in an affluent neighbourhood in New York City. It’s a Brownstone, so one of the sought-after homes by celebrities and politicians. They don’t really have to work anymore, but Dad does still pick up the occasional tracking job and Mom likes to tinker on cars. She was a mechanic before she was a spy.”

 

“That’s awesome,” Elio breathed. “A female mechanic. Kinda progressive, you know? Maybe not so much  _ now _ , but that would’ve been pretty new in the sixties.”

 

Oliver shrugged, as accustomed to strange and unusual as he was to taboo and non-traditional. 

 

“They’ve definitely got money, but my Uncle Leo is the one that paid for my schooling and pretty much anything else I’ve wanted to do, including this trip. Mom and Dad could’ve easily paid for it all, but he insisted. Something about  _ sewing my wild oats in a different country _ before tying myself down to a career in the States.”

 

Elio gave a sound close to a giggle, still a little squeamish over what they’d done together but very slowly growing to love the idea of being in love with Oliver. “Tell me more about him. I know it’s a sordid story if what my father mentioned is true. He was an art thief in the forties and fifties, wasn’t he? Dad said his name’s Napoleon.”

 

Oliver nodded, able to this time since Elio’s eyes were on him. “Yeah, Napoleon Solo, but I’ve always called him Leo. He got in with a crowd of soldiers that kinda thought stealing from bombed museums and blown-out houses in Germany and Poland was a good idea. They made huge money selling the art to collectors around the world, but it progressed from paintings to statues, and then to all manner of goods like cash and jewelry, then he got caught.”

 

“How come he’s not in prison, then?”

 

“CIA cut him a deal and he had to spend fifteen years as their slave. Hunting terrorists, working the rich and famous for information, and like the night he met my mom and dad, trying to save the world. Mom’s father made a bomb for that friend of Mussolini’s and if his plans to build it got out, it would’ve been nuclear war. Nobody got the plans since the three of them worked together and stopped it, but Uncle Leo didn’t retire when Mom and Dad did.”

 

“Still doing it, even today?”

 

“I think so,” Oliver said. “He still flies all over the world and disappears for a few months at a time, but he always tries to come back to New York for special occasions. I didn’t know what he really did until about five years ago. I was told he was an art professor that did seminars and shit all over the world, so that’s why he wasn’t always around.”

 

It was apparent to Elio that Oliver greatly appreciated--and even idolized--his Uncle Leo. The glazed look of adoration was evident in Oliver’s eyes and Elio felt his chest ache at the thought of having such a relationship with someone. He loved his father for the same love of art and for how delicately the man treated him despite his oddities, but Elio thought it was more difficult for someone like Oliver to truly idolize another man.

 

“And does your father approve of this love you have for your Uncle Leo?”

 

“Yeah. They’ve been inseparable since they finished that nuclear mission. Dedicated to keeping each other alive, and making sure that my mom’s always taken care of and nothing bad ever happens to her. They’re all that same sort of  _ protective _ over me. It’s kinda stifling from my parents, which is why the phone calls here are so short.”

 

“My parents, too,” Elio admitted, giving a light shrug. “I know it isn’t the same thing, but it’s still amazing, isn’t it? Having people to watch over you and make sure you’re doing all right? Maybe it’s because we’ve got no siblings, but I think it’s just that  _ parental instinct _ I don’t understand.”

 

“I guess so. Uncle Leo’s been my biggest influence for my career. I wanted to get into art to be like him, and learning that he was really an art thief and a spy made me want to do it even more. It sounds so fucked up, but he’s  _ amazing _ . Rich, and handsome, and charismatic. He’s in his fifties now and still looks like a man in his thirties. Dark hair and blue eyes. I’m not attracted to him, but I’m also not _ not _ attracted, you know?  Fuck, it sounds so stupid, but I owe him so much.”

 

Elio could recognize a jumble of emotions when he saw it, and he reached a hand out to place it over top of Oliver’s, smiling through a sunshine-induced squint. “Thank him for me, huh? If he hadn’t made you want to travel, we never would’ve met.”

 

Oliver snorted and was quick to snatch Elio’s hand, bringing it to his lips to press a light kiss upon it. “You’re right. I’ll have to mention it in the next letter I write to him.”

 

“He never lets your parents read what you write to him, does he?” Elio worried. 

 

“Nah, he’s kinda private that way. Very accepting of everything my father sometimes _ isn’t _ .”

 

“Oh, I getcha,” Elio said quietly, immediately understanding what Oliver meant. “Sometimes even spies keep secrets.”

 

Oliver nodded, not letting Elio’s hand fall from his. “Yeah, I guess so.”


	4. Slice Of Life Snippets #2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second in my on-going slice of life snippets.

  
When Oliver was six, his end-of-year class trip was to the Bronx Zoo. Illya was volunteered as a chaperone by Gaby's doing--he spent a very solemn evening the night he learned of it, telling her exactly what she could do with her volunteering ideas-- and he went begrudgingly but willingly enough.  
  
The other parents that had volunteered watched Illya with some apprehension due to his notable height and how severe he seemed, holding Oliver's hand but not really interacting with the other children.  
  
They arrived as a group at the giraffe paddock and the children crowded against the fence to catch a glimpse of the tall animals, seeing them as the giraffes approached the fence line as if it were feeding time.  
  
Illya scooped Oliver up and let him sit on his shoulders, the giraffe lowering her head to snuffle at Oliver's hair and jacket, Illya's hands firmly clamped down over Oliver's boots in case the animal nipped his clothes and tried to drag him off.  
  
Nothing untoward happened and Illya set Oliver back down, but was immediately drawn to a child standing at his feet because the child had tugged at Illya's pantleg.  
  
 _He wanted up too._  
  
Illya eventually allowed every child to sit for a minute or so on his shoulders so they could get personal with the giraffe. It earned Illya points with the parents, and helped to make Oliver a little more popular with the other children.  
  
\----------------------  
  
  
Illya likes to have hands on his loved ones when he's in a room with them, not really taking into consideration the situation or the company present.  
  
He'll sit in his big chair in the den and Oliver will knock lightly as a boy of eight or nine, asking without words to be let into his father's private office.  
  
Illya will nod and Oliver will come in, immediately climbing into Illya's lap and making himself comfortable, a piece of paper in his hand to show his father what he'd drawn, or a toy he really loved in hand, dragged along for the chat.  
  
Illya has a hand around the boy's back to cradle him against himself or to simply steady him in the chair, one huge hand cupped around Oliver's hip to ensure the boy's safety.  
  
They often fall asleep like that together, the discussion of superheroes, or school, or something troubling the boy putting both of them to sleep.  
  
Gaby finds them more often than not in this sort of position, her husband with his head resting on Oliver's, with Oliver's face tucked against his dad's chest, one arm curled beneath his little body and the other up and over Illya's shoulder to curl around his neck.  
  
Illya would deny it to his enemies and anyone not within his inner circle of trusted people, but his protective nature had ramped up a thousandfold once he became a father.  
  
Gone were the days of mild concern for the safety of others, and now he'd willingly take bullets for his wife _and_ son, but their beloved Napoleon was also on the list. Both agents had the wounds to prove it.  
  
\-------------------  
  
  
It's something Oliver has to explain to his friends when he's in his early teens, when friends are finally allowed to visit.

  
"He just gets..handsy, I dunno. Don't panic. It's normal."  
  
The friends shrug because they've all been to each other's homes and their mothers were all huggy, touchy kinds of women, and the other dads were a clap on the back or a punch in the arm type.  
  
As the boys file into the house, Gaby's in the kitchen whipping up something Oliver knows will be tasty as a snack for the group, but Illya's in the front foyer waiting for them.  
  
"Hands out of pockets, please," he demands, not using his authoritative voice, but not really _needing_ to.  
  
He walks up to each boy in turn and slides a hand over their hair, cupping them each on the back of the neck to see what sort of reaction they give. Each one is an immediate drop of the gaze and a light sigh, exactly the reaction Illya expects. Any man can be brought to a state of understanding by a light grip at the nape of the neck.  
  
The boys get upstairs and Gaby's at their heels with snacks and drinks, leaving them all to have their fun for the night. Sleepovers were a big thing in the 1970's, and Illya had followed the technology of the times and set Oliver up with a decent television and movies area for himself and his friends.  
  
"Told you," Oliver explains, rolling his eyes. Two of the boys are a little pink in the cheeks from it, and the other one looks a little spaced out.  
  
"Wish my dad gave me that kinda feeling. Kinda felt like..he was giving me a hug without, you know..putting his arms around me."

  
Oliver just shrugs and starts the movie, the new-fangled BETA video player a gift for his thirteenth birthday.  
  
"He's always been like that. It feels _safe,_ I dunno."  
  
\-------------------  
  
Illya's drawn to the kitchen by the smell of cookies.  
  
He's not a sweets eater by any means, but the smell of freshly-baked anything drew almost anyone's attention after a long enough interval. He peeks his head around the door to find Gaby bustling about, Oliver sitting in his playpen in the corner of the kitchen, perfectly content with his bottle of juice and building blocks.  
  
There's a stack of cooled cookies on the counter and more currently cooling on wire racks, while the rest are in the oven. Gaby is tidying the dishes from her mess of baking; bowls, whisks, wooden spoons, measuring cups. She'd obviously used a cutter for the moon and flower shaped cookies, so they were likely in the soapy sink as well.   
  
He was a super spy, Illya thought to himself, so sneaking in to steal a _cookie_ should be easy.   
  
The stack was too far away but the currently-cooling cookies were right on his side of the counter. Illya swallowed and went for it, reaching the counter without Gaby turning around from the sink and grabbing for the nearest cookie to him. He immediately regretted it when the icing on top of the cookie stuck right to the palm of his hand, causing him to bark out a surprised noise and drop it to the counter.  
  
Gaby gave a chuckle and turned around slowly, drying her hands on the towel hanging from her apron pocket. "I knew the sticky stuff caught pests, but not _that_ easily."  
  
Illya stood up straight and looked like a chided child, the ruined iced cookie now icing-side down on the counter, and the rest of the icing was rapidly drying on his hand. "I should have asked."  
  
Gaby clucked her tongue. "Yes, my dear, you should have asked. Now wash up and I'll give you one that's set."  
  
Illya washed his hands in the hot, soapy dishwater and then dried his hands on Gaby's towel, leaning down to kiss her lightly when she went onto her tip-toes for one.  
  
She handed him a pair of iced moons and pointed to the playpen. "Have a seat with your son and enjoy those. He can't have any, but you can share the corner like a pair of naughty boys. Go on."  
  
\--------------------  
  
  
Gaby learns something new from Napoleon, only a few months into her marriage: Illya has an 'off' switch.  
  
Napoleon demonstrates it one night after dinner; cocktails on the coffee table and finger foods sitting beside the stemmed glasses, Oliver's on the floor playing with some new toy Napoleon brought him, and Gaby's sitting beside Illya, one large arm around her body to comfortably hold her against him, while the other hangs over the armrest, Illya's palm raised toward the ceiling as he flexes his fingers.  
  
"It's something I found out while hiding in a bunker in Libya, with Peril a little _worse for wear._ He'd been beaten by the guards after being drugged, and he needed something to numb the ache in his head, so I put a little trick to good use."  
  
Illya rolled his eyes but Napoleon continued. "I don't remember who showed it to _me_ the first time, but it works on a lot of people, myself included."  
  
Illya's eyebrows shot skyward because he wasn't aware of that fact, but he allowed Napoleon to get to his feet and come over to rest on the arm of the sofa, Illya's hand now in his lap.  
  
Napoleon reached out and cupped his hand over the back of Illya's neck, covering his nape completely. He locked eyes with Gaby and winked at her, then squeezed rather firmly with that hand and compressed Illya's nape.  
  
Illya's shoulders drooped and his eyes fluttered closed, his mouth sliding open just a fraction so he could let out a breath. He'd been successfully shut down, like some robot in a science fiction film.  
  
Napoleon lifted his hand and Illya's eyes opened again, his broad body giving a bit of a shiver, then he rolled his shoulders and glanced at the American. "Is dirty trick."  
  
Napoleon snorted and Gaby gave a cluck of her tongue. "It's amazing. Do it again."  
  
Napoleon did, and the same thing resulted; Illya shut right down and even his hands went lax, his fingers uncurling and the one cupped around Gaby's hip sliding off to lay on the couch cushion beside her.

"Incredible," she whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be more chapters of this, but each chapter will be short, and only snippets of their daily lives and special circumstances. I'll update somewhat often, but not with any real consistency. The snippets come as I'm sitting around bored some days, and I never sit down JUST to write them. They're spur of the moment, darlings.


End file.
